


the lucky ones

by valyrias



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, a fic where linctavia's NOT the side pairing of bellarke hallelujah, everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias/pseuds/valyrias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her priorities really suck. She’s being held captive in a Grounder village, and all she can think about is how she can suddenly see colors. | Wildly AU Linctavia</p>
            </blockquote>





	the lucky ones

Earth has a strange beauty to it, even if she can't see all the colors she's meant to see. The trees are a dark gray, with chips of black inside their bark, and their leaves are a paler gray. The sky itself is silver, with white clouds.

Vince is the only one of them who can see color, and he's the second one to get off the drop ship after her. "What's it like, Vince?" she asks, unable to stop smiling. If the radiation kills her, at least it would kill her while she was happy—for the first time in a long time.

Vince smiles. "Beautiful," he says. He doesn’t say anything further. Figures he’d reinforce what she already knew.

* * *

“Pairs of two, remember,” Bellamy says. He moves to Octavia’s side, but she shakes her head.

“Sorry, Bell,” she says. “Jasper’s already my buddy.” Her brother’s jaw clicks as he glares at Jasper, who swallows and shrugs. He’s putting on a brave face, but his hand shakes. Bellamy sighs through his nose and glares at her. She wants to smile at his obvious annoyance, but she’s not that much of an asshole. “Plus he’s a good shot.”

“Says who?” he retorts.

She loops an arm through Jasper’s and glares at him. “I already have a buddy. Rules are rules, Bell.”

Bellamy gives her a sardonic smile and turns to Jasper. “Anything happens to her, I’ll kick your ass,” he growls. She slaps his arm, but her brother pays her no attention.

“He’s a softie underneath, I promise,” she tells Jasper once he’s gone. Jasper swallows and brushes his dark gray hair out of his eyes. He nods once, jerkily, and tries at a smile. The sight makes her frown at her brother’s back. Not even a week into their time on Earth and he’s determined to be seen as a ruthless jerk.

“Whatever, let’s go find some two-headed deer to eat tonight,” she jokes.

They venture out into the woods, where the only sounds are birds chirping and their breathing. Octavia tries to keep an eye out for anything that moves—really, anything that can be eaten—but she instead spends her time absorbing every detail of the woods. She’s never been in such an open space before, not even when she was _in_ space.

A glowing, muted gray butterfly flutters across her vision. Octavia exchanges a glance with Jasper and grins, then runs after it. Jasper swallows again, but hefts his gun and follows her. “This is a bad idea,” he warns her. Octavia shakes her head.

“Come on, there’s no one left. You’re not scared of a little radioactive butterfly, are you?” She gives him another small smile, trying to take the sting out of her words. He had saved her from the… _thing_ that was in the water, after all. And the poor guy seemed so jumpy.

Jasper says nothing. The butterfly leads her to a small clearing, where hundreds of butterflies just like it occupy the space. Octavia breathes in slowly, admiring the view. She stretches out a hand, and a butterfly lands on it in seconds. Its wings flap once, twice—and soon, other butterflies join it, resting on both her arms.

“What color do you think they are?” she asks Jasper, her voice a hushed whisper. He shrugs again.

“I don’t know. Red?” he says. She tries to think of what she learned when Bellamy taught her what he learned in school, before her mother got floated—red was the color of blood, strawberries, sometimes autumn leaves, and certain apples. And, according to Vince, red was sometimes the color of the sky, just before night.

The butterflies lift off of her arm like a hive and fly away. She turns around to watch them—and Jasper screams. She whirls around and stiffens at what she sees. A spear is sticking out of Jasper’s thigh, and the tip of it is dripping gray blood. She lifts her gaze, trying to find where it came from, but she doesn’t see anything except bushes.

“Octavia, run,” Jasper groans.

She does run. But she takes his gun first.

* * *

 _Shit, shit,_ shit _. Where’s the camp?_

Now that she’s running for her life, the woods suddenly aren’t as beautiful. Octavia pushes all thoughts of Jasper bleeding out on the forest floor out of her mind and focuses on running. _Zigzag_ , she reminds herself. She jumps to the side, and an arrow whizzes through the spot of air her head had just been. She stifles a shriek and keeps running.

If they’re truly alone on earth—then who the _hell_ threw that spear?

Something crashes into her from behind, sending her into the dirt face first. Octavia screams and rams her attacker with her elbow—and it hits home, because the weight is off of her for a few seconds. She uses the time to scramble out from underneath whoever’s attacking her and turn around.

Her attacker is a man, covered in furs and his face concealed by a mask. _A Grounder. Holy shit_.

She clings to the gun and aims, but the Grounder knocks it to the side and rips it out of her hands before she can pull the trigger. He tosses the gun to the side and pulls out a knife. Octavia lunges forward, her nails digging into his gloved hand and trying to wrestle it out of his hand. The Grounder shoves her away and she trips, falling back onto the dirt.

She turns over and falls back onto an arm, holding one hand up toward the Grounder. “I am not afraid,” she tells the man, but her hand shakes. She swallows hard and lowers her hand, keeping her eyes on the Grounder’s face. “Just—please, make it quick.”

God, who is she kidding? He probably doesn’t understand a word she says. She swallows again and does her best to keep her tears at bay. _I am not afraid, damn it._

He kneels next to her and seizes the back of her head, raising his knife like he’s going to plunge it into her throat. She can see his eyes this close up. They’re the only human part of his face. Something jerks in her chest, but Octavia ignores it and raises her gaze to rest on the treetops.

A moment later, he lets her go. Octavia falls onto the forest floor with a grunt and crawls away, getting to her feet before she can make sense of what happened. She almost runs, but something makes her face the Grounder. He stands up and pulls off his mask with his other hand, staring at her with a strange intensity. He drops the mask and holds up a hand, shouting something in a language she can’t understand.

He let her go. Another shot at survival. She turns around and sprints, not bothering to try for the rifle. The man shouts something after her, but she ignores him. She had to get away and find safety, and then find the others. Bell would go after Jasper and bring him back. He would make everything all right.

Before she gets too far, another Grounder— _another one?_ How many _were_ there?—emerges from the bushes and seizes her by the throat. He doesn’t wear a mask, but his face is covered in tattoos and twisted into a snarl. The man lifts her up, snarling something she can’t understand. Octavia tries to breathe through her nose and kicks at his bone armor, claws at the hand wrapped around her neck, but nothing works.

The man shouts again, this time much closer, and the Grounder holding her drops her. Octavia falls to the floor.

She looks up, holding her throat, and something catches her eye. The sky… it’s off color. There couldn’t be a storm coming in, could there? And the trees—they didn’t look as dark as they once had.

 _Focus, O_. She looks at the arguing Grounders again and tries to scoot away, but the one who’d grabbed her throat noticed. He pulls out his knife, says something to the first Grounder, and kneels in front of Octavia. She swallows hard, but he doesn’t stab her. He doesn’t do anything for one long moment.

“For God’s sake, kill me already,” she says, but her bravado is ruined by her trembling voice. The Grounder smiles as he flips the knife to hold the hit and slugs her.

The last thing she sees is the sky brightening into a much more colorful shade than white.

* * *

She wakes up in a metal hut. Furs are heaped over her body, but that doesn’t help the ache in the back of her head. She opens her eyes a crack, just to scan where she is, and sees no one. She opens her eyes fully and sits up—and the first thing she focuses on is the fire burning in the center of the hut.

“Jesus,” she whispers. The fire is colorful. She wracks her brain and has a name for the colors—red, orange, yellow, sometimes blue. Those are the colors of fire. But blue is also the color of the sky, she knows that. She kicks the furs off of her and scrambles to the window, gaze seeking out the sky.

Blue is a cool, soothing color, but it’s not in the colors of the fire when she looks at it. She can’t see the sun, either, so she doesn’t know which colors in the fire are red or yellow or orange. She scans the ground of the village she's in, but all she sees is mud, no grass. The mud is brown, like the trees and her hair.

She sits down on the dirt floor and holds her head, screwing her eyes shut. Her priorities really _suck_. She’s being held captive in a Grounder village, and all she can think about is how she can suddenly see colors.

No. Not suddenly. This wasn’t random. It never was.

The thought made her open her eyes again. Even thought she’d had to hide under a floor for sixteen years, she knew that people could only see color if they had found their destined. Which meant that one of those Grounders was her destined. _Jesus Christ, no._

She had to get out. She had to get back to camp and tell Bell what had happened. She glanced around the hut again and stood up, searching for something—anything—she could use as a weapon.

She spends five minutes searching for the hut for a weapon. Just when she spots a knife across the room, the blanket serving as the door sweeps aside and the Grounder who had knocked her out steps through. Behind him is the first Grounder, the one who had shot an arrow at her.

“Hello,” the first one says. Octavia swallows and tries to regulate her breathing. She had to act normal. _I am not afraid._ “How are you feeling?”

So he _could_ understand her. “I’m okay, considering I was _attacked_ a few hours ago,” she spits. So much for acting normal. “Who are you? Where am I? Where’s my friend?”

“You got a feisty one,” the one who’d choked her says, chuckling. The first one gives him a glare, but Octavia looks at him and stiffens.

 _You got?_ Then… Jesus.

The man lifts his face and their eyes meet. She clutches the table behind her. She remembers those eyes. He’d seen her and immediately stopped trying to kill her, and now she knows why. “My name is Lincoln,” her destined says. “This is Nyko.”

“Great. Where’s my friend? The one you shot with a spear.” Lincoln and Nyko exchange a glance. “If you don’t tell me, I swear I’ll—”

“What’s your name?” Lincoln interrupts. Octavia shuts her mouth and stares at him, her hand clenching into a fist behind her back. These two men are warriors, and Nyko had proven he’s not afraid to kill. And she’s in a Grounder village, which could be anywhere. Maybe… maybe threats aren’t the best idea. She couldn’t help Jasper that way.

“I’m Octavia,” she says. “Please, my friend’s in trouble.”

“Your friend is fine,” Nyko replies.

“Can I see him?”

“No.” Nyko steps forward, and she instinctively flinches into the table, knocking some tools off of it. “Sorry about your head. The bump should be gone in a few days.  We didn’t think you would come willingly.”

“You didn’t give me the chance,” she shoots back. Nyko moves past her and bends to pick up the supplies that had fallen. “Why am I here?”

Nyko mutters something to Lincoln, who nods. Nyko glances at her once. “If the bump isn’t gone by tomorrow, come find me.” With that, he leaves the hut, leaving them alone. Octavia focuses on Lincoln and swallows. Now that he’s not wearing any masks or face paint, he… looks normal. He looks human.

And he’s hot.

But he still tried to kill her.

 _Focus, O_.

“Can you see colors now?” she asks. He nods. “Because of me?” Another nod. She clenches her hand. So this was her destined. A Grounder turned almost-killer.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me, Octavia, or anyone in this village.”

His words sound so sincere. “I want to believe you,” she replies. “And maybe I would have, too, if you hadn’t held a knife to my throat, or if you hadn’t fired arrows at me, or if your friend hadn’t choked me, or if you hadn’t thrown a spear at my friend—is there a _reason_ you were trying to kill us?”

“You’re—” He cuts himself off and looks away, (absurdly well-defined) jaw clenching.

Octavia steps closer, narrowing her eyes. “I’m what?”

“You’re invaders.”

Oh. Well. That made sense. Octavia releases her breath when she realizes he’s right. To them, they would be invaders… even if they hadn’t done anything to them. Just being here on Earth would seem hostile to them. “Well, if it helps, we didn’t _choose_ to come down to Earth. We were sent here.”

“ _Sent_ here? There are more of you?”

“Yes. But they won’t come down, if my brother gets his way,” she says. “Lincoln, why am I here?”

“You’re safe here,” Lincoln says.

That doesn’t answer her question. She clenches her jaw and says, “Great. If you’re going to avoid answering my questions and telling me the truth, I’d much rather be alone, thanks.”

Lincoln watches her for a long moment. She almost thinks that he’s not going to leave. But then he nods and leaves the hut, and she’s once again all alone.

She stays in the hut the rest of the day. No one bothers her after that.

* * *

The next morning, her second day in the village, Lincoln enters the hut with a tray of food. Her breakfast is colorful blue berries and slabs of thoroughly cooked meat, with water in a crudely carved wooden cup. The smell of it makes her mouth water, but she looks away from him. Lincoln sits next to her. “You need to eat, Octavia.”

“I’ll eat when I know my friend is all right.”

“He’s safe,” Lincoln promises.

“That’s not enough. I don’t know what _safe_ is for you. _Safe_ could be hanging out with a radioactive wolf pack and not being lunch yet. Is he with my friends?”

“I can’t tell you that, even if I wanted to. Our leader took him away. I don’t know what she plans to do with him.”

Kill him, most likely. Damn it. And, while she couldn’t know it, she had a feeling that Lincoln was telling the truth. She couldn’t be angry at him for something he wasn’t responsible for. She didn’t even know if he had been the one to throw the spear. Her stomach growls, and she takes the tray from him, careful not to touch. “Thank you, Lincoln.”

There was that half-smile. “You’re welcome, Octavia.” He gets up and moves to the door, and she doesn’t try to stop him. But once he’s gone, she regards the doorframe with a new light in her eyes.

* * *

When he returns, it’s with a metal box that rattles with every step. “What’s that?” Octavia asks.

“It’s to teach colors,” he replies. “The first of our village collected these when he was still alive. Now we use them to teach the children, in case… they’re one of the lucky ones.”

She says nothing, so he opens the box and pulls out a leaf. She rifles through her knowledge. The leaf brighter than the moss that grows on some of the huts, but she knows that sometimes leaves were different colors depending on the seasons. She could thank Bellamy and his school textbooks for that. “Is that a spring leaf or an autumn one?”

“Spring.”

“Green, then.” She sits back and smiles against her better judgment when he nods. “That wasn’t so hard. What else is in that box?”

Lincoln returns the smile and pulls out three other leaves, all three of them different colors. Now his smile looks a little smug. “These are autumn leaves.”

She picks up the one in the center. It’s the same color as tree bark, darker than the dirt outside but about the same shade as the ground when it was muddy. “This one’s brown,” she says, setting it down. Lincoln doesn’t react, which could mean she got it right or he’s too polite to correct her. She sets it down and picks up the one on the left. Corn was yellow, and so was the sun. But she had yet to see corn with her new colorful vision, and the sun was always too bright.

But she had seen the fire, which had been two colors—red, or orange, or yellow. Three choices, two answers. She’d seen blood before, which was red, and red had been in the fire. That left her orange or yellow. Octavia sets the leaf down. “Are you testing me or are you here to learn the colors too?”

He half-smiles. “Both.”

“Great. Do you have anything you know for _sure_ is yellow?”

He nods and withdraws a flattened flower. Its petals are a bright color that does remind her of the sun a little bit. If it was any brighter she wouldn’t be able to look at it directly. She picks up the leaf and says, “Then this is dark yellow.”

So now she knows what orange looks like, as well. “What’s this?” she asks, picking up the third leaf. What colors hadn’t she seen frequently? “Purple? Dark purple?”

He nods, and she has another name for another color. The next thing he takes out is a butterfly, almost exactly like the ones that had surrounded her before they’d been attacked. Jasper had thought it was red. Now he might not know what its real color ever was. “Blue,” she says , looking away. Really, she looks anywhere but the butterfly—or Lincoln.

There’s a beat of silence. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Will _sorry_ get me back to my people?” she asks, but her voice isn’t harsh—just tired. She’s tired of staying here and not getting any answers to her questions.

“You’re a guest here, Octavia. No one is keeping here against your will.”

She blinks, her eyes narrowing. “Great. But, Lincoln, I don’t know the way back.”

“We can’t risk you leading the Sky People back to our village. They’re violent. We’ve seen you almost kill one of your own—”

“Murphy?” Octavia sits back, stunned. How long had the Grounders been watching them? “You _saw_ that?”

“Not personally. I heard reports.”

“Well, I would never lead them back here,” Octavia assures him, and she means it. Since she’s been in the village, she’s been treated with nothing but respect and kindness. She wouldn’t betray their trust like… others had betrayed hers. Something makes her lean forward and rest her hands on top of Lincoln’s. His hand is soft and warm, if calloused, and it makes her spine stiffen as she lets go and sits back. That had been a bad idea. Terrible idea, really. “And Murphy’s a psycho. We thought he’d murdered someone.”

“ _Thought_? You didn’t know for sure he was responsible?”

She pulls a face. “It’s complicated, okay?” A long pause—Lincoln doesn’t look very convinced, and the worst part is she doesn’t know how to change his mind. She shouldn’t even _want_ to change his mind. She shouldn’t feel _safe_ in his presence.

“I don’t want any more lessons tonight.” She can feel herself relaxing in Lincoln’s presence, and that’s the last thing she wants to do. She still remembers how narrowly that arrow missed her head. “Thank you, Lincoln.”

A Grounder she doesn’t recognize pushes the blanket door and says something in that gibberish. Lincoln stands up and nods. “Good timing,” he says. “I have to go. I’ll leave the box here, in case you want to identify anything else. Goodbye, Octavia.”

She nods and watches him leave. When he’s gone, she sighs and turns the box toward her. Inside are uncountable objects, all of which are their own distinct colors. She picks out a berry. “Red,” she says, laying it on the table in front of her. When she’s confident that she’s correct in her assessment, she pulls another item from the box. “Green. Blue. Dark blue.”

* * *

Two hours after Lincoln left her alone, and she’s _bored_. All she’s done is hang out in the hut and glare at the kids who come by the window to stare at her. And she hasn’t come any closer to finding out where Jasper is. He might even be dead.

At least the colors don’t confuse her anymore. Two days wasn’t exactly plenty of time to adjust, but she’d grown much more appreciative of them. And Lincoln, admittedly, but it figured that her… destined (God, she’s still having trouble swallowing that) was the hot guy who had attempted to kill her before he realized that they were destined. That wasn’t something she could just get over with the snap of her fingers.

Another one of those bratty kids jumps in front of the window. She rests her arms on the window ledge and her chin on her arms. “Want to play a game?” she asks. When she smiles, her crooked teeth shine against her dark skin.

Octavia sighs. Well, there’s nothing better to do. “What kind of game?”

The child’s eyes light up. “Come outside and I’ll tell you.”

Octavia waits just a moment longer, then pushes herself and leaves the hut for the first time. Other villagers who are working stop and watch her, but when the girl runs to Octavia’s side, they shake off their shock and go about their day. “You’re Octavia, right? I’m Emile,” the girl says, tugging on Octavia’s shirt. “Do you know how to play tag?”

Octavia shakes her head, and Emile launches into a detailed explanation. As she talks, she shouts unintelligible things at other children—but Octavia picks up words she understands, like “come”. She also says something that sounds like _joo-ay_ , which makes the other kids who’ve gathered around exchange grins.

When there’s a sizable crowd—not just of kids, but also teenagers and some curious adults—Emile claps her hands. “Ai laik et!”

The other kids scatter, and Emile closes her eyes and starts clapping. Every time she claps, she says something. One of the children runs up to her, giggling, and starts pulling her away. He says something to Emile, who replies, “I’m it, Octavia. Run!”

“Oh, shoot,” Octavia says. Emile claps once more, and her eyes open and lock onto Octavia. The child trying to help her giggles and runs away. Octavia faces Emile and stays put.

“You should’ve run. I’m the fastest one in the village,” Emile says, giving her a toothy grin.

“I bet I’m faster,” Octavia says. Emile sprints toward her. Octavia waits—and at the last moment, she darts to the side. Emile swipes at her, but her hand misses. Octavia runs for the group of children waiting next to a hut, who laugh and scatter. Octavia round a pole holding pots and pans and avoids Emile’s hands by an inch. “Can’t catch me!” she shouts, skidding to a stop and turning around.

Emile’s resting her hands on her knees, catching her breath. There’s something devious in her eyes. Instead of trying for her again, she goes after another child and catches him easily. But the child had been darting across Octavia’s path—and he’s much closer to her than Emile. Once he realizes he was it, he turns toward Octavia and lunges for her, and this time she can’t avoid his touch. “Octavia laik et!” he yells.

Octavia dashes for a swarm of children, but they avoid her and a few of them shout things she can’t understand. They’re probably taunts, but Octavia ignores them. She can’t get mad at what she doesn’t understand.

She turns around, ready to find another kid, but instead of seeing the clear space of the village center she sees Lincoln in front of her. A deer with three antlers is slung across his back. Behind him are three other hunters, all with their own catches of the day.

“Nonkle!” Emile cries. Octavia clears her throat and steps aside, providing room for Emile to hug Lincoln around the waist. The sight makes her stomach clench. Was Emile his daughter? Jesus Christ, if he brought her here and he had a wife…

“Niece,” Lincoln assures her. Octavia nods, but she doesn’t look at him. Emile disentangles herself and holds her hand out, which Octavia hits. She shouts something and runs toward a teenaged boy, restarting the game.

Lincoln joins the other hunters and disappears into a shed with his kill. Octavia glances his way then shakes it off. There are better things to focus on—like not being overwhelmed by the colors and not being tagged.

Despite her best efforts, Octavia ends up being it most of the time, as she’s the main target of the kids. Once a little girl whacks her leg and dashes away with a mad giggle, it’s her sixth time being it, and she has to catch her breath. She straightens up to scan the village for potential targets, and her gaze settles on Lincoln. He’s leaning against the doorframe of a metal, rusted/moss-covered hut. Octavia walks toward him, and he straightens up as she approaches.

Octavia stops in front of him and takes a deep breath. Then she touches his shoulder—a shiver travels up her arm at the contact—and darts away.

“Lincoln laik et!” she shouts, looking over her shoulder. Emile high-fives her when she runs past, and she shouts something that makes the adults laugh and the children nod vigorously. Lincoln half-smiles and looks down, crossing his arms over his chest. When he looks up, there’s a brief pause, and then he joins the game.

And Octavia had thought it was hard _before_ Lincoln had joined the game.

* * *

At the dinner fire that night, Lincoln doesn’t sit next to her. She tells herself she’s not disappointed. Emile fills his absence by sitting behind her. “Can I braid your hair?” she asks. “It won’t be in your way anymore for tag if it’s behind your head.”

Octavia watches the little girl, then assents with a tiny nod. Emile grins and scoots behind her, and a moment later Octavia feels little fingers tugging on her hair. “You’re lucky you two found each other when you did,” she says. “All the women in our village want Lincoln for their mari—husband. But now that he’s found his somat, he’s only got eyes for you.”

“Reassuring,” she says. She seeks out Lincoln despite herself. He’s speaking to another Grounder, but soon he lifts his head and looks at her. Octavia watches him for a long moment, then drops her gaze to the pure orange fire.

“When are you two getting married?” Emile asks.

Octavia almost chokes on her radioactive deer. “Married?” she asks, coughing. Emile pounds her on the back, but that doesn’t help. When she can breathe again, she continues, “We met three days ago. He hurt my friend, and he tried to kill me.”

“Well, he didn’t know you were his somat,” Emile says, shrugging. “He wouldn’t have done it if he knew who you were.”

As if that would make anything better. “Well, that doesn’t make it right. And he hurt my friend.”

“I’m sure he’ll kick himself for years for what he did. He does that. You’ll love him eventually.” She tugs on a braid and lowers her voice. “Okay, you don’t think he’s handsome? Not even a _little_ bit?”

Octavia looks at her nails to hide her blush, even if she’s annoyed at the girl’s insistence of their inevitable love. “I’m not discussing this. You haven’t touched your food, Emile. If you don’t eat I’ll eat it for you.”

Emile laughs and more fingers thread through her hair, tugging and twisting. “You _do_. Ah, I’ll tell him.”

“Don’t—” Too late. Octavia presses her lips together as Emile finishes a braid and springs up. The girl gives Octavia a mischievous smile and heads for Lincoln. She whispers something in his ear, to which he gives a brief smile and waves her off. Octavia grits her teeth and pushes Emile away when she tries to resume her position of braiding her hair.

Unfazed, the girl sits down next to Octavia. “He thinks you’re beautiful, too,” Emile reassures her. Octavia looks at Lincoln across the fire, and he shrugs apologetically. She shakes her head and glares at the child.

“I thought we were friends.”

“We _are_ friends.” Emile’s smile is bright and innocent. Octavia tries to stay mad at her and fails. “But see, everyone’s scared that you and Lincoln won’t love each other, even though you’re somat. And everyone knows what happens to separated somat.”

She says it like she’s waiting for Octavia to contradict her. Octavia rolls her eyes and says, “What happens to separated somat?”

“They get turned into Reapers,” Emile whispers, her voice morphing into what had to be intended as something meant to terrify. Octavia only furrows her brow. Reapers? “They worry about their somat so much it drives them mad. They turn into bloodthirsty monsters and kill for fun. And they eat other people for food.”

Octavia tilts her head up to the sky, then decides to humor the child. “And what happens if the Reaper sees the somat again? Do Reapers turn back to normal?”

Emile sits down, stumped, and Octavia smiles. “That’s never happened before,” the little girl insists. “It’s impossible.”

“Anything is possible,” she reminds the girl, taking a bite out of her meat again. She swipes a handful of mushrooms from the girl’s metal plate, and Emile responds by grabbing the rest of her meat and licking it.

“You steal my food, I steal yours.”

Octavia looks at the meat and sighs. “I did tell you I’d eat it if you didn’t.”

Emile’s mouth drops open, and she responds by taking a bigger bite of her swiped food. After a few furious chews, she says, “I didn’t think you meant it! Oh, I’ll get you tomorrow, Octavia of the Sky People. You just wait.”

“Did I hear you right, nis?” Lincoln asks. Emile laughs as he grabs her around the waist and swings her up. “Were you threatening Octavia? You know I must now battle you to the death. I will show you no mercy.” He looks at Octavia. “Unless, of course, Octavia wills it otherwise.”

“Hmm. I don’t know, she _was_ mean to me all day today,” Octavia says, tilting her head. “Show her no mercy, Lincoln.”

Lincoln swings Emile again and tilts her upside down, and only lifts her up when Emile, shrieking, pounds his arm. Octavia watches with a wide smile. After a minute, Lincoln sets her down upright. “Go find your mother, and don’t give her too much trouble, all right?”

Emile sticks her pink tongue out and scampers away. Lincoln turns to Octavia and sits down next to her. Other Grounders are standing up and getting ready to retire, but no one seems keen on interrupting them out in the open. “I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble. She’s a handful. Did you get enough to eat?”

“Oh yeah, plenty. Trust me, I’m used to small portions.” After she realizes how that sounds, she adds, “I mean, I have a small stomach.”

He nods, and she hopes he accepts her reasoning. She doesn’t want him to think she’s being starved at the dropship and think worse about her friends than he already is. “Is it time to sleep?” she asks, hoping that’ll distract him. He stands up and nods, offering her his hand.

She watches it for a moment, then lifts her hand and places it in his. Again, there’s that electrical touch, but it only lasts for a brief second as he helps her to her feet.

“I have watch, but I can walk you back.” There’s something that almost sounds hopeful in his voice, though it’s very controlled. Maybe that’s just her imagination. Octavia nods, and Lincoln escorts her back to her hut. It was just as well—she didn’t really know her way around, especially when it was dark.

When they reach the hut she’s been staying in, she rests her hands at her sides and drums her fingers against her hip, unsure what to do with her hands. “Goodnight, Lincoln.”

“Goodnight, Octavia.”

He turns around and leaves, and Octavia waits a moment before she enters her hut again.

Well, maybe it wasn’t so bad. At least she doesn’t have to put up with Bell’s snores here.

* * *

Sixth day of—she’s no longer as willing to call it her _captivity_ , especially after staying so long in the village—her _presence_ at the Grounder village, she finds Grounder clothes at the edge of her makeshift mattress. Her shirt is torn at the stomach, but dark blue and cleaner than what she’s wearing right now. She changes into the fresh clothes and finger-brushes her hair, clearing out any of the knots. Emile was right—braids really did help with keeping her hair out of her face.

When she walks outside, Lincoln is helping a Grounder woman carry baskets full of clothes into a hut. When he returns empty-handed, and the woman doesn’t follow him outside, Octavia draws up her courage and approaches him. ****

“Hey, Lincoln,” she says. He stops at once and waits a moment before turning to her, but she suspects he knew exactly where she was. He probably had known that she’d watched him. “Are you busy right now? Do you have anything else you should be doing?”

“Not right now, no.”

She exhales, and her next words come out rushed. “Can you teach me how to fight?”

Lincoln stares at her, then half-smiles. “What brought this on?”

“I need something to keep me busy,” Octavia replies. “I might as well being doing something useful, like learning how to defend myself.”

He crosses his arms, still looking half-amused. “And how would you use this knowledge?”

“Well, if you’re concerned about me attacking everyone in the village, I wouldn’t kill _you_ —everyone knows I’d get turned into a Reaper if I did that.”

“Who told you that? Emile?” When she nods, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to her. She tells everyone that. They’re lies.”

“Yeah, I figured. What’s a Reaper, anyway?”

“A monster who used to be a man. Pray you never see one.”

“Will do. But if I do come across a Reaper… _that’s_ why I need to learn how to fight. Wouldn’t you agree?” Lincoln makes a noise that sounds like he’s half-amused and half-exasperated. Octavia gives him her most winning smile. “Are you going to teach me or not?”

In the end of the argument (which she wins), he grabs a knife, a bow and a quiver full of arrows. They leave the village behind and he leads her to a clearing in the woods. Pockmarked targets are already carved into trees, and the grass in the clearing is trampled by the barest imprints of feet. This must’ve been their default training area.

Lincoln rests the bow and quiver on the ground and turns to her. He hands her the knife—Octavia makes sure their fingers never touch—and steps back. “First, you need to learn what to aim for when you’re fighting someone. This here,” he says, tilting his head back and tapping a vein in the side of his neck, “is the jugular. Cut it and your enemy will bleed out in seconds. That’s what you aim for if the neck is exposed. If you can’t get a clear shot, just aim for the throat in general.”

“All right, sounds easy enough,” she says, tilting the blade in the light to get a better look at it. The blade is dull gray; the green grass that serves as its background provides a strange contrast.

Before the lessons can continue, someone screams in the distance. It almost sounds like—“Was that Emile?” Octavia breathes. Lincoln stiffens and they exchange a horrified glance. Lincoln doesn’t bother to reply. He runs toward the village, and Octavia follows without a second thought.

She comes back to the village to a horrible sight. Villagers lie on the ground, some of them are moving, some of them are not, but all of them are bloody, and everyone around them is engaged in a fight, even the kids. Her gaze seeks out Emile and finds her—the girl is sprawled out on the ground. Her chest rises in short, shallow breaths. A bloodied knife lays in her open hand. “Reapers!” someone shouts to Lincoln.

One man with blood dripping from his lips wipes his mouth with his hand and kneels at Emile’s side. “No!” Octavia screams, launching herself at him. She lands on the man—no, creature’s—back and wraps her arms around his neck.

The Reaper grunts and grabs her by her hair, throwing her off with savage force. Octavia lands on her side and pain shoots through her arm. She can’t get up in time before the Reaper’s in front of her, blood and spittle coating his lips and beard. She shuts her eyes as he lifts his axe—

The blade never comes. Octavia opens her eyes to see that Lincoln has caught the man’s arm. He is the only thing between her and the Reaper’s axe. “Octavia, run,” Lincoln grunts. He shoves the Grounder off of him and catches the blade of the axe with a dagger, driving the creature back a few pages.

“Like _hell_ I’m leaving you,” she shoots back. She scrambles away and runs toward Emile, grabbing the discarded knife. When she turns around, she sees the Reaper knock Lincoln to the ground. The thing lets loose a savage howl of victory, and his distraction is what Octavia needs to jump onto his back again. Before he can throw her off of him, her hand tangles in his matted hair and whips his head back—not a lot, but enough to expose a stretch of white skin. Octavia slits his throat with a snarl and is still on the Reaper’s back when he pitches forward. Lincoln rolls out of the way and gets to his feet when Octavia crashes to the ground.

She slices the jugular when he’s down, just to make sure, and when she stands up her hands are soaked a vibrant, terrifying red. _Oh, God_. Jasper had been one thing, but seeing so much blood on her hands…

Lincoln grabs her hand, making her look up. He closes her fingers over her knife and pushes her away. “Octavia, you need to go. Take Emile and leave the village. We’ll find you afterward.” A Reaper howls as it drives its sword through the throat of a warrior. Octavia covers her mouth, trying in vain to suppress her scream. Lincoln picks up the fallen Reaper’s battleaxe with his left hand and hefts his dagger with his right. “Octavia, go!”

She staggers to Emile, falling to the girl’s side and checking her pulse. It’s weak, but steady. When she pulls her hand away, she leaves a bloody imprint on the girl. _I killed someone._ “Hold on, Emile,” she whispers, managing to pick her up. Emile weighs nothing, but she’s cold to the touch. _I have to get to safety._

Everyone around her is dead or fighting, too busy to help her. So instead of seeking help, Octavia turns and heads into the woods as fast as she can. She moves through the forest until she finds a fallen log that borders a sloping hill. “This looks okay,” she tells the silent Emile.

She sits behind the log, low enough to not be seen from the other side. Once they’re safe, she turns toward Emile and starts checking her for injuries. She talks herself through the things she’d overheard Clarke mention during her stints as a doctor. Breathing and airways—clear. When she checks for bleeding, she finds a large gash to the bone down Emile’s calf. She can see everything in horrifying, colorful detail. _Oh, no._

How could she help Emile? She knows next to nothing about medicine, except for the first aid books Bellamy had brought her when she begged for something to read. She sits back on her haunches and grinds the heels of her palms into her forehead, trying to think of a plausible solution and ignoring the wet on her skin. “Okay, Octavia, how would Clarke approach this?”

Clarke would stop the bleeding. And then she’d disinfect the wound.

She shrugs off her jacket and her shirt, leaving her only in a tank top undershirt. Contaminating the clothes she meant to use as bandages was a bad idea, and using a tourniquet would kill the healthy cells in Emile’s leg if used too long, she remembered that much. But it wouldn’t be there long. She rips the bottom half of her shirt off and ties it around Emile’s thigh. Once the tourniquet is secure, Octavia works in a daze.

She cuts the pant leg that sticks to the wound away, wrestles off the boot, and rips the rest of her shirt into bandages. When that’s done, she unties the tourniquet and props Emile’s bare foot onto her lap, above her heart.

She clamps her hands above Emile’s knee and says, “Stay alive, all right? You told me you’d get me back for stealing your food. You better keep that promise.”

She has to wait ten minutes before the bleeding stops. Octavia releases a breath and wipes at her wet cheeks. “Now to warm you up,” she tells the girl. Octavia props Emile up and manages to get her coat around the girl’s body. She buttons it up to Emile's chin and rubs her arms, hoping the friction would be enough to warm her up, even a little bit.

She goes back to the leg and grimaces at the bloody mess. She doesn’t have anything to disinfect it with—and just as bad, she doesn’t know any plants that could help. You’d think hanging out with people who live off the land for six days would help her pick up some tips, but no. “Hang tight, Emile,” she whispers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

* * *

When she opens her eyes again, it’s night and her arm hurts. Her head rests on her bicep, and Emile’s foot rests on the side of Octavia’s thighs now. _I fell asleep._ Blind panic seizes her, but once she realizes that they’re safe, she calms down. Octavia sits up, and readjusts the foot. When that’s settled, she checks Emile’s pulse and smiles. Lincoln’s niece is still alive, and her pulse is stronger now. “You awake?” she asks the night, and her reply is a soft groan.

A weak voice replies in the Grounder language, and Octavia smiles. “Better speak English. I can’t understand that.”

Emile whimpers. “Octavia. It hurts.”

“I know, Emile. I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to disinfect it. We have to wait ’til Nyko and Lincoln come. Can you hold out that long, or do you want me to try and find the village?”

Emile snorts. “You’d die trying.”

Octavia frowns. So much for trying to be nice. Emile tries to move her leg off of Octavia’s lap, but she grabs the girl’s ankle and shakes her head. “You can’t. If you move this, it’ll start bleeding again.”

Emile mutters something but doesn’t try to move her foot again. They wait in silence, and eventually she hears Emile’s soft, slow breaths again. She’s asleep. Good.

An orange light in the darkness steals her concentration, and after waking Emile up, she presses closer to the fallen log. “Someone’s out there,” she whispers to Emile. “They might be Reapers. Don’t make a sound.”

The torch grows closer. Octavia doesn’t move, but her heart pounds so hard in her chest it gives her a headache. “Emile!” a woman shouts, shattering the silence. “Octavia!”

Emile shouts something unintelligible, and Octavia stands up as the torches—they’ve turned into three now—swing toward them. “Do you have Nyko?” she asks the darkness. “Please, Emile needs help.”

Nyko is the first one to become distinguishable from the darkness. Octavia helps lift Emile over the log and lets him tend to the girl. She looks up, eyes searching out only one person. When she does spot him, the relief lightens the weight in her chest and makes tears prick her eyes.

“Lincoln,” she breathes when she spots him, breaking into a sprint before she realizes what she’s doing. Lincoln catches her when she crashes into him and she feels him press his face against her hair. He smells like blood and rot, but she doesn’t care. She wraps her arms around him and presses her cheek against his chest, shutting her eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” she whispers into his coat. “I thought you were dead.”

“I don’t die easily,” he replies, pulling away. “You’re cold.”

“I’ll be fine.” She looks away from Lincoln to the rest of the group.

Their commander, a harsh-looking woman named Indra, watches Octavia through narrowed eyes. Octavia steps away from Lincoln, but tightens her hold on his hand. She’d avoided Indra for the most part, but the woman had always given her disgusted looks whenever they crossed paths.

“Nyko,” she says, then says something too quickly for Octavia to understand—but she hears the words _fis em op_. Nyko glances at Octavia and nods. After a long moment of silence, Indra looks back at Octavia. There’s no disgust in her gaze anymore.

When the commander turns away, Octavia sags against Lincoln. “What did she say?”

“She asked if you were the reason Emile’s alive,” he whispers. “And Nyko said yes.”

One of the warriors picks Emile up and carries her in his arms, and Indra gives a command that makes everyone else turn around and head back toward the village. Octavia clings to Lincoln’s hand and his warmth during the walk. “Let’s go home,” she whispers, exhausted.

Lincoln looks down at her in surprise, and he squeezes her hand. “Home,” he agrees.

* * *

She jolts awake when someone touches her arm. “It’s just me,” Lincoln says. The firelight makes his eyes shine. Octavia brushes her hair out of her eyes and sits up, pulling away from Lincoln and his electrical touch.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I want to show you something.” He offers her his hand. Octavia clenches her jaw, juggling her options. She could turn over and spurn him again, but there had to be a limit on his patience. Or… she could trust him. She’d been here a week and no one had hurt her. Jasper, though… she remembers the Reapers and she props herself up on her elbow.

“Are we under attack?”

“No. You’re safe.”

She hmphs and flops back down onto the mattress. Lincoln sighs. “Octavia, please.” His voice drops lower into a near unintelligible whisper. “Don’t you want to see your friends again?”

That makes her sit up and face him again. Did she hear him right? She _couldn’t_ have heard him right. He’d been the one arguing for her to stay in the village all this time. Maybe this was a test.

Octavia eyes his hand again, then takes it. The heat from their contact travels up her arm and she shivers as they stand up. Despite herself, her fingers interlace with Lincoln’s as they leave the hut. Lincoln glances down at their entwined hands, but he says nothing. Octavia presses close to him whenever a Grounder walks by. Nyko sees them and laughs low in his throat. Lincoln lets go of her hand and wraps it around her shoulders. Octavia licks her lips and raises her own arm, wrapping it around his waist.

They walk out of the camp and no one bothers them. When they’re far enough behind that they can no longer see the village’s fires in the night, Lincoln releases her. She pulls away and tries to ignore the chill that prickles across her skin in his absence.

Lincoln leads her a little further, but stops her with an outstretched hand. He moves into the darkness and returns with a white flower, with delicate yellow-and-green stems inside. “This is a lily. There’s a trail of them in the forest. Follow them, and they will lead you back to your people’s camp,” he assures her in a whisper. He blinks, then sweeps his fingertips up the side of her face, tucking the flower into her hair.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, shivering again—this time not because of the cold. “Is it because of the Reapers?”

He doesn’t answer. She tries again, this time with another question. “Is Jasper alive? Can you at least tell me that?”

“He’s alive,” he says. She sighs in relief. If he was alive, then Bell and Clarke and the others might have already found him. Lincoln turns to go, but she says, “Wait. Lincoln, wait.”

He turns around and she faces him, swallowing hard. She approaches him and cups his face. She takes another breath and stands on her tiptoes, pressing a long kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers, dropping down to her normal height.

Lincoln responds by cupping her face and kissing her forehead. He pulls away and points into the distance. “Go,” he urges her, his voice hoarser than when he last spoke. Octavia follows his finger and spots a lily resting against a mossy tree trunk.

She turns back to Lincoln. “Thank you,” she whispers. Before he can respond, she runs to the lily and picks it up. Once she sees the second lily, splayed out on the ground, she turns to see Lincoln—but he’s already gone.

 _He let me go_.

Octavia pulls the flower from her hair and twirls it between her fingers. It’s beautiful, just like him. She looks back toward the village. “I’ll come back,” she promises the night air.

She tucks the flower back behind her ear, and turns to follow the trail of lilies.


End file.
